Poetic Prose

I never understood life or love. Do you continue doing it until the stopwatch stops? Enjoyment and recreation were foreign terms to me. I always have had a gnawing yearning for perpetual screaming. I was always unable to find the pause button in the passive laptop.

I would never communicate my inner monstrosities with anyone. I would be in my room whenever I needed to mouth words and charge them at a body. It was always a body, only too familiar to me, that received the brunt of rage. The stretch marks, the repressed scars, the ignored light—everything was inside me yet rejected. I was disjunct yet light refused to transpire through me. I'm sitting on the wheelchair of my dreams with retarded rims. I'm in a pit with Kafka's disjointed ladder. These tired hands clasp a Kindle device but it switches off. The battery inside me died. I died while dreaming of breath.